thought excited Aretha so much she knew she had to plan for the next moment when she would be wrapped in Kwame’s arms and her hormones would take over. At that moment, she knew safe sex would be just one more thing to think about tomorrow. She had scheduled an HIV test in the hope that her willingness to take one would prompt him to do the same. Once they were both certified HIV-free and monogamous, they could pick a birth-control method and let nature take its course.
When she’d shared her results with Kwame a few nights later, he laughed. She was confused until he reached into his pocket and pulled out his own test results, dated the same day as hers. They both took this as a sign of mutual devotion and celebrated with an absolutely amazing weekend of unprotected sex in every possible permutation. Of course, she got pregnant. That was when everything changed.
Aretha tried to shake off the feelings her thoughts were stirring up. Her worries were spoiling her walk home. It was only five blocks between her studio and their house. The streets were lined with beautiful old trees and lovingly restored Victorians whose peaked roofs and gingerbread-house affectations recalled an era of porch swings and high-button shoes and family dinners nightly at six when Daddy came home from work.
That’s not the way it works anymore, Aretha thought, wondering if those women with husbands and fathers and brothers and sons had figured out something that continued to elude her. Had they found a way to be wives and mothers and lovers and friends? Had they juggled their disparate selves without complaint, made their lovely homes havens of domestic bliss, and, in the process, earned their husbands’ love and their children’s devotion?
Aretha didn’t believe it for a second. It probably had been just as hard for them as it was for her. Maybe that’s just the way it is, she thought, turning the corner onto her street. What was the old R&B song her dad used to play all the time?
That’s the way of the world?
She didn’t know if this thought comforted or depressed her. What she did know was that when she opened her back door the house was empty. It was midnight.
14
Z ora Evans got on the northbound train to New York City at eight o’clock. By nine-fifteen, she had eaten a delicious dinner of roast chicken and mashed potatoes and shared a heartbreaking conversation about the war with a couple from Slidell, Louisiana, whose only son was currently serving in Iraq. When she told them she was a student at Spelman College on her way to D.C. for a meeting with other student activists who were questioning the war, the father leaned across the small dining-car table as if he had a secret he wanted to share.
Taking a deep breath, he assured her that his son was not a coward, but lately the boy’s letters had become increasingly desperate. The last few had so upset his mother that they were on their way to see their congressman to demand some answers. The woman was thin and sallow with a pinched, worried expression that softened only when she showed Zora a photograph of her son, a freckle-faced redhead with big ears and the barest suggestion of a mustache.
They hugged her at the end of the meal and told her they knew their son and the other boys and girls over there would appreciate what she was doing and to keep up the good work. She watched them walking out of the dining car, holding on to the seat backs to keep from stumbling as the train rocked its way toward their nation’s capital city, and rededicated herself to being a force for peace in the world.
When she got back to her little roomette, Zora pulled out her pajamas, brushed her teeth, splashed some water on her face, hung her clothes on a hanger in the narrow closet, and slipped into the bed that John, the sleeping-car attendant, had made up while she was at dinner. Train travel was too slow for most people, but she loved it. Something about being on the train made her feel
When she’d shared her results with Kwame a few nights later, he laughed. She was confused until he reached into his pocket and pulled out his own test results, dated the same day as hers. They both took this as a sign of mutual devotion and celebrated with an absolutely amazing weekend of unprotected sex in every possible permutation. Of course, she got pregnant. That was when everything changed.
Aretha tried to shake off the feelings her thoughts were stirring up. Her worries were spoiling her walk home. It was only five blocks between her studio and their house. The streets were lined with beautiful old trees and lovingly restored Victorians whose peaked roofs and gingerbread-house affectations recalled an era of porch swings and high-button shoes and family dinners nightly at six when Daddy came home from work.
That’s not the way it works anymore, Aretha thought, wondering if those women with husbands and fathers and brothers and sons had figured out something that continued to elude her. Had they found a way to be wives and mothers and lovers and friends? Had they juggled their disparate selves without complaint, made their lovely homes havens of domestic bliss, and, in the process, earned their husbands’ love and their children’s devotion?
Aretha didn’t believe it for a second. It probably had been just as hard for them as it was for her. Maybe that’s just the way it is, she thought, turning the corner onto her street. What was the old R&B song her dad used to play all the time?
That’s the way of the world?
She didn’t know if this thought comforted or depressed her. What she did know was that when she opened her back door the house was empty. It was midnight.
14
Z ora Evans got on the northbound train to New York City at eight o’clock. By nine-fifteen, she had eaten a delicious dinner of roast chicken and mashed potatoes and shared a heartbreaking conversation about the war with a couple from Slidell, Louisiana, whose only son was currently serving in Iraq. When she told them she was a student at Spelman College on her way to D.C. for a meeting with other student activists who were questioning the war, the father leaned across the small dining-car table as if he had a secret he wanted to share.
Taking a deep breath, he assured her that his son was not a coward, but lately the boy’s letters had become increasingly desperate. The last few had so upset his mother that they were on their way to see their congressman to demand some answers. The woman was thin and sallow with a pinched, worried expression that softened only when she showed Zora a photograph of her son, a freckle-faced redhead with big ears and the barest suggestion of a mustache.
They hugged her at the end of the meal and told her they knew their son and the other boys and girls over there would appreciate what she was doing and to keep up the good work. She watched them walking out of the dining car, holding on to the seat backs to keep from stumbling as the train rocked its way toward their nation’s capital city, and rededicated herself to being a force for peace in the world.
When she got back to her little roomette, Zora pulled out her pajamas, brushed her teeth, splashed some water on her face, hung her clothes on a hanger in the narrow closet, and slipped into the bed that John, the sleeping-car attendant, had made up while she was at dinner. Train travel was too slow for most people, but she loved it. Something about being on the train made her feel
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